North Wind's Breath
by Zenosyne
Summary: Alduin has won, and in his dying moments the Dragonborn splits his powers among three which embody the original archetypes: the Warrior, the Mage, and the Thief. His most loyal companions, Lydia and Erik the Slayer, must find these successors before the world is devoured, but the scrolls do not foretell their victory...


This has been sitting in my files for the longest time and I never uploaded it... If I continue it'll update on either Wednesdays or Saturdays, whichever I choose, and it'll be weekly or biweekly depending on chapter length!

* * *

"Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince;  
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. "

-William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

* * *

For the longest time, he did not stir.

Erik had almost, just almost, begun to take his plan of telling Lydia the bad news - _without_ getting a sword to his neck- seriously before he heard the coughing behind him. The chair slammed to the floor from the force of his sudden jump, forgotten in the release of his anticipation. First he saw the blood on the warrior's lips, staining his beard, enough blood to dribble onto the floor and create a small puddle. Then he became aware that is wasn't the sound of coughing as much as it was the cry of a dying man.

It wasn't that bad, he told himself. The memories of the blood still haunted him, pooling inside the tiny caverns created by the dragon's countless fangs. He recalled the _pop_ the Dragonborn's chest made when he fell limp from the beast's maw, then he could hear nothing over the deafening roars of the fighting dragons, Alduin's screams when the other one, the one the Dragonborn had spoken to on the top of the mountain, sank its teeth into the vulnerable, newly scaleless flesh...

The Dragonborn did not scream. He merely fell, red and broken.

She was at the Dragonborn's side before him. Lydia had known the Dragonborn longer, that much was obvious, but it didn't diminish his own emotions. When the Dragonborn used his magic to sew back together her chest in Alftand she had not shed a tear, and now he looked away when he saw the soft lights from the fires reflecting on the the dampness of her face. He looked the same way, he supposed, although he felt nothing but a gaping hole of despair in his heart.

The words were unintelligible through the gasps that accompanied them. "We can't hear you, my Thane," Lydia whispered, barely intelligible over the noises. The Dragonborn did not react and the two onlookers bowed their heads, but after a couple minutes he looked over the shoulders and said in a louder tone:

"Is... is it ready?"

Behind them, one of the Greybeards replied, "It is, as are we. Are you sure about this?"

The Dragonborn raised his hand to motion his impatience, but the fingers were limp and unresponsive. "Before it's too late..." he murmured, then began choking with the difficulty of his words.

Two of the other Greybeards approached, holding a box between them with strange, intricate carvings that neither Erik nor Lydia had a chance to examine before Arngeir ushered them away. The winds outside were nonexistent, and the air felt empty without the cries of dragons. He led them past the temple and down onto the stone steps a little ways from the entrance. "Wait here," he commanded. "This isn't for your eyes."

"What are you doing?" Lydia half-snarled. "If he's going to die, I want to be with him!"

A sad smile. "You will be, I promise. This is a fail-safe we agreed upon before the battle, in case the World-Eater took his victory."

His heart skipped a beat. Several beats. His breathing quickened and he could think of no words, while beside him Lydia whispered, "Dear gods, a... Can he...?"

"He will not live," the Greybeard replied gently. "We will call upon Akatosh and beg for his forgiveness at our failure, and ask for the power of the Dovahkiin to be resurrected in another. Pray that our world is given a second chance."

He did not have to look away from the Greybeard to see Lydia's face fall. They were left alone after that, and sat in utter silence on the cold, grey mountain steps with the moon frowning upon them. The world trembled many times and the thunderous roars from within the temple did not subside, but neither acknowledged their fates.

"You know," she said at long last. "When we first met, I..." Her voice trailed away into shaky breaths after that.

Unsure of what to do, Erik merely rubbed her shoulder. Neither had removed their armors in their grief, but he figured it was the intent that mattered here. The entirety of her body had been splattered with blood, though whether it was mortal or dragon he could not say. The amulet around her neck, the one with the intricate bronze knots and turquoise gemstone, had not escaped the bloodshed. He didn't know what it meant to her now and dared not ask.

As the shouting diminished and the tremors faded away, the stars shined brighter than ever around them. If it were not such a somber moment, the mountaintop would be beautiful. The Warrior and Mage sparkled clearly above them without smoke from city fires, and even the elusive Thief could be glimpsed. They were the brightest of the visible constellations, although he wasn't sure if he had ever seen them in these positions before.

"Look!" He grabbed Lydia's shoulder then continued, "Something's happening, the stars are... Hey, a shooting star!"

She said nothing, but did not tear her eyes away from the sky.

"And another," he breathed. "And... By the nine, another! They came from..."

"The Thief, the Warrior, and the Mage."

When they were led back inside, the first thing Lydia did was to throw herself on the Dragonborn's shaking body. His eyes were caked in dried blood, but he pried them open to stare fully into her own for a few last moments.

"Listen," he rasped. The creeping death was apparent in his tone, but he spoke without any coughs or breaks.

"I don't have long... The Great Dragon showed me three for you to find. The Mage is buried in crooked feathers and rotten wings, and you must save them from the terrible claws or you will fail before you have even begun. The Warrior has roots in the sun, but they have turned their eyes on another and now rides our dead mistress. The Thief is but a cold glint in the shadows and leaves a trail such that only the forgotten may whisper the way."

He did not breathe after this, and when Erik moved to close the Dragonborn's eyes he shuddered at the cold flesh. The Greybeards did nothing to stop the growing pool of blood, but they bowed their heads as the pair's cries echoed throughout the lifeless halls.


End file.
